Introduction

At the time of our first interview, Paco was 29 and participating in a weekly batterer intervention program in Buenos Aires, following a court-mandated referral. He had been in the process for more than a year and was close to the moment officially estimated for finishing it. He spoke vehemently of feeling “cornered” and “labeled”, while also struggling to comprehend the evaluation criteria the professionals used. He approached therapy sessions with skepticism, feeling uncertain about his legal status and the bias held by the professionals against him. Like others, Paco’s narratives clashed with institutional efforts to achieve desistance.

The study of narratives has proven to be of value for understanding the subjective processes that shape individuals’ lives and influence their interactions with institutions (Presser & Sandberg, 2015). Research on the accounts of men who perpetrate intimate partner violence (IPV) offers insights into the rationale behind violence (Hearn, 1998). However, it has been little used to understand IPV desistance (Weaver et al., 2023), hampering an opportunity to analyze the subjective dimensions of interventions (Dziewa & Glowacz, 2023; Renehan & Gadd, 2024).

This paper arises from a practical interest in the processes of change of men attending batterer intervention programs in the Metropolitan Area of Buenos Aires (Argentina) and Montevideo (Uruguay). Drawing on narrative studies on violence against women, masculinities, and desistance, we explore men’s stories about change while attending batterer intervention programs. We consider two questions: Which stories are used to describe change? And which are used to describe their involvement with batterer intervention programs?

Intimate Partner Violence and Desistance

Desistance refers to the gradual process through which individuals reduce the frequency and severity of their criminal and/or violent behavior, eventually bringing it to its cessation (Maruna, 2001; Laub & Sampson, 2001; Rocque, 2017). Academics have shown growing interest in its study (Maruna & Liem, 2021), since understanding it can help to improve intervention programs (De Vel-Palumbo et al., 2023; Weaver et al., 2023). Desistance results from the interaction of numerous factors, both internal (e.g., sense-making) and external to the individual (e.g., social network and community) (LeBel et al., 2008). There is no agreement as to which are the most influential factors in change: maturation, rational choice, social learning, turning points, and identity changes have all been suggested (Weaver, 2019).

Research on IPV desistance is still scarce (Boxall, 2023; Weaver et al., 2023). This is partly explained by the fact that generic knowledge about desistance from most criminal behaviors—notably, property crimes—is not directly applicable to IPV (Merchant & Whiting, 2017) as it typically involves unique dynamics and motivations, such as coercive control and a desire to dominate a partner, which are not usually present in violence against strangers (Boxall, 2023; Giordano et al., 2015; Ólafsdóttir & Hearn, 2023). It is also more difficult to set a temporal criterion for IPV cessation than for other forms of desistance (Weaver et al., 2023). This is because this type of violence is cyclical: there might be variations in the frequency and intensity due to changes of circumstances in the relationship–parenthood, job loss, moving in together, etc. (Walker et al., 2013). Moreover, subtle and normalized forms of violence, such as psychological abuse, may go unnoticed, further complicating efforts to assess whether desistance has occurred. This lack of research is even more evident in Latin America, where studies on IPV desistance remain extremely limited.

Despite ongoing debates about how to adequately evaluate IPV desistance, there is a broad consensus that enduring change requires transformation in two areas. Internal change is usually considered essential: identity reformulation, acceptance of accountability for past abuse and developing empathy and communication skills (Dziewa & Glowacz, 2023; Gondolf & Hanneken, 1987). External change is also crucial: shifts in the dynamics of intimate relationships and the broader social environment, often precipitated by significant turning points (Laub & Sampson, 2001)—such as breakups, legal interventions, or societal stigma (Giordano et al., 2015; Walker et al., 2017)¹.

IPV desistance is therefore seen as both an individual and a relational process, co-produced through interactions with partners, family members, and social networks (e.g., Boxall, 2023; Dziewa & Glowacz, 2023; Ólafsdóttir & Hearn, 2023). This perspective highlights that change is not driven by internal transformation alone but also depends on social recognition and support—desistance becomes sustainable when others acknowledge and validate the individual’s efforts within the emotionally complex context of intimate relationships (Weaver, 2012).

The Role of Batterer Intervention Programs

Treatment facilities play a significant role in this transformative process (Di Marco et al., 2023; Giesbrecht, 2018; Weaver et al., 2023). However, the effectiveness of intervention programs for IPV perpetrators is variable and widely debated (e.g., Arce et al., 2020; Eckhardt et al., 2013; Gottzén, 2019; Lila & Gilchrist, 2023; Walker et al., 2013). A common explanation points to the mandatory nature of many programs: most participants are court-mandated, which leads to low motivation for change, denial, minimization, or justification of their actions, a lack of commitment to the program and a weak therapeutic bond with the professionals involved (Lila & Gilchrist, 2023; Renehan & Gadd, 2024; Santirso et al., 2020). More importantly, the assumption that populations across diverse socio-institutional and geopolitical contexts are directly comparable has also been questioned, raising concerns about the generalizability of findings (e.g., Gondolf, 2004; Hughes, 2023).

The relationship between participants and staff has also been examined to understand change and its surrounding narratives (Hamel et al., 2022; Renehan & Gadd, 2024; Santirso et al., 2020; Soleymani et al., 2022). This bond, usually conceptualized as therapeutic alliance, includes “the collaborative nature of the relationship, the affective bond between patient and therapist, and the patient’s and therapist’s ability to agree on treatment goals and tasks” (Stubbe, 2018, p. 402). Some studies highlight that those who successfully desist after participating in a program are heavily influenced by their attitude toward the facility and the relationship they established with the professionals (Hamel et al., 2022; Renehan & Gadd, 2024; Soleymani et al., 2022). Research conducted in other therapeutic settings, such as drug abuse rehabilitation centers, indicate that the this therapeutic alliance significantly impacts both outcomes and attendance rates. Participants’ perceptions of how good the therapy is can determine how committed and successful they are, while a poor therapeutic alliance can lead to detrimental outcomes—sometimes worse than if no program had been attended (e.g., Berry et al., 2016; Goldsmith et al., 2015).

In addition to interpersonal dynamics, the structural design of intervention programs plays a critical role in their effectiveness. Elements such as the theoretical orientation (e.g., cognitive-behavioral, psychoeducational), the scope and sequencing of sessions, the length and intensity of the program, and whether it is group-based or individualized, all influence outcomes (Di Marco et al., 2023; Lipsey et al., 2007). Similarly, a program’s organization and dynamics shape participants’ narratives and identity change processes (Gottzén, 2019; Walker et al., 2013). While analysis of the therapeutic relationship now appears more often in the literature, it is mainly through a quantitative lens and realist frameworks (Hamel et al., 2022; Santirso et al., 2020; Soleymani et al., 2022), and mainly stemming from the Global North. Moreover, there is limited evidence on how broader reliance on institutions—such as legal and social systems—might influence these trajectories. Little is still known about how participants perceive the institutional settings themselves, their overall relationship with these structures, and how these perceptions are woven into their narratives of change (Renehan & Gadd, 2024).

Narrative Criminology and IPV Desistance

This study is grounded in narrative criminology, an approach focusing on the impact of “the creation and verbalization of stories on the commission, maintenance, and effective desistance from crime and other harmful acts” (Sandberg & Ugelvik, 2016, p. 129). From this perspective, how individuals narrate their lives and expectations, as well as how different thematic narratives interact, is closely linked to the process of desistance (Maruna & Liem, 2021). In this context, those who desist often speak about their lives in terms of redemption, growth, hope, and connection with others. Persisters, on the contrary, tend to adopt a pessimistic life perspective, along with a passive attitude toward life and a lack of personal responsibility for their behaviors, blaming others for their inability to change (Maruna, 2001). In either case, the availability of alternative narratives through which to interpret one’s life, expectations, and future is essential for attitudinal change.

Examination of IPV perpetrators’ narratives has been helpful for understanding their views on the dynamics of gender-based violence (Boira et al., 2014; Ólafsdóttir & Hearn, 2023) and cessation from it (Dziewa & Glowacz, 2023; Giordano et al., 2015; Merchant & Whiting, 2017; Walker et al., 2017). The potential for change appears to be shaped—sometimes constrained—by the narrative frameworks available to them, including those circulating within carceral or therapeutic institutions (Ievins, 2019): whether stories depict change as positive, pointless, or threatening affects people’s chances of desistance. Maruna et al. (2004) also contend that identity transformation is not solely an internal process but one that is shaped through social interaction: the ways we narrate ourselves to others influence how they perceive us (for instance, as capable of change), and these perceptions, in turn, shape how we come to see ourselves. This reflects what Weaver (2012, 2019) describes as an iterative process of narrative and recognition, where social surroundings help affirm or undermine efforts to change.

We therefore explore men’s narratives about their desistance process and batterer intervention programs. Rather than focusing on their explanations of violence, we examine which change narratives are available to these men within relational and institutional contexts, and how they employ them. In this sense, our primary analytical focus is not on the men per se and their desistance/persistence, but on the stories at hand. This focus sets this study apart from ones exploring the reasons behind violence (e.g., Hearn, 1998; Dziewa & Glowacz, 2023; Gottzén, 2019; Merchant & Whiting, 2017). Additionally, we analyze a sample of men from the Southern Cone—a region where research on IPV and desistance remains limited—with an interest in examining whether theories developed in the Global North adequately capture the realities of this context.

Methods

This paper derives from the mixed-method, multi-sited project 'Relational desistance: narratives and relationships surrounding change in gender based violence interventions' (El desistimiento relacional: relatos y relaciones en torno al cambio en dispositivos de violencia de género, CyTMA2 C2SAL-105, La Matanza National University, Argentina) examining the life stories of cis-gender men attending batterer intervention programs. We use a qualitative narrative approach, based on analysis of the interviews from Argentina and Uruguay.

Contextual and Institutional Setting

Argentina and Uruguay have similar institutional processes for men charged with IPV: following a complaint made in a court, the case is forwarded to the local gender or violence office². After the formal judicial process, men are contacted by the local judicial authorities and required to attend a community-based batterer intervention program. If a man is accepted after an admission interview, the average length of mandatory participation is a year, though treatment is expected to take a year and a half.

Treatment programs are typically based on psychoeducation and cognitive-behavioral therapy. In both countries, most interventions draw on cognitive-behavioral principles and gender-aware psychoeducational frameworks developed within Latin American contexts (see Iniciativa Spotlight et al., 2021). These are often influenced by feminist approaches that seek to interrogate masculinity and promote emotional regulation through structured exercises, such as role-playing, self-monitoring of emotional responses, and guided group discussions aimed at recognizing and reframing harmful thought patterns. However, there are no standardized national models implemented across institutions. Common elements include reflection on gender norms, critical discussion of violence, and the development of nonviolent relational skills. Most programs involve weekly group sessions, sometimes supplemented by individual counseling. These sessions typically address topics such as gender roles, the social construction of masculinity, identification of abusive behaviors, emotional self-regulation, nonviolent communication, and empathy building. The primary aims of the programs are that their participants take responsibility for their actions, build ‘self-control’, and learn how to regulate their emotions. Programs may be delivered by public or private institutions. There may be other legal measures, such as restraining orders or electronic ankle monitoring.

Although there are institutional and cultural differences between Buenos Aires and Montevideo, the core structure, referral pathways, and approach of batterer intervention programs in both jurisdictions are largely comparable. Both cities’ programs are embedded in similar legal systems and influenced by shared professional networks and regional approaches to IPV intervention. For this reason, we did not differentiate interviews by location in the analysis.

Completion rates in the two countries are similar, with approximately 20% of men finishing the programs, based in our interviews with program professionals. In both contexts, program completion is determined by the professionals in charge, based on their assessment of participants’ progress and readiness to exit—typically after around a year and a half, as outlined in most program guidelines. Accordingly, we considered men to have desisted when this status had also been granted by the program professionals.

Sample and Recruitment

Convenience sampling was used due to the limited accessibility of institutions, the unfeasibility of recruiting a broad and randomized pool of participants, and the practical advantage of simplifying contact and coordination with participating programs during our fieldwork. Participants were cisgender men. The initial inclusion criteria required that participants: (1) had been in the program for a minimum of six months; (2) resided in Metropolitan Buenos Aires or Montevideo; and (3) had acknowledged committing acts of violence. The inclusion of cisgender men was not a deliberate feature of the study design but rather reflected the population available through the participating institutions.

When we contacted batterer programs, we sometimes asked authorities and practitioners to put us in contact with men willing to participate in interviews after the main aims of the study had been explained to them: this included both men currently attending and past participants. Otherwise, we attended group sessions, explained the study’s objectives, and asked if anyone wanted to take part. Which option was chosen depended on the program’s openness to the involvement of outsiders. As a result, our sample includes men at different stages of treatment: those in the mid and final phases, as well as those who had already completed the program.

The sample was formed by men from 13 different institutions (approx. 3–4 participants per institution). It included 41 men living in Metropolitan Buenos Aires (Argentina) and Montevideo (Uruguay) (Table 1). Two interviews were conducted with eight of them, one interview was done with the rest. Second interviews were conducted, on average, one week after the first, to expand on the narratives provided during the initial interview when relevant topics had been underexplored. The participants’ mean age was 39 (min: 18; max: 59). When interviewed, 37 were employed, two were unemployed, and two provided no information in this regard. Due to the location of the research team, most participants were from Argentina.

At the time of the interview, 32% of participants had completed the program and 68% were still attending. Among those still in the program, 46% had been attending for 6 to 12 months, and 54% for 1 to 2 years. This distribution was intentional: we sought to include men hypothetically well socialized into the program’s dynamics (those attending for one year or more, including those who had finished) as well as those in earlier stages (around six months), to include narratives with varying levels of exposure to the intervention. Seventeen participants were in an intimate relationship—two with the same partner they had been abusive towards. None were in custody, and according to professionals, there were no reports of continued abuse.

Procedure

We conducted open interviews, following a narrative technique (Rosenthal, 2018). Participants were first asked to give a spontaneous, complete narrative of the events, focusing on intimate relationships and what they saw as changes. Clarification and exemplification were sought, and paralinguistic expressions (e.g., “mhm”) were used to encourage storytelling. When two interviews were conducted with a participant, the narrative produced in the first one was discussed by the research team straight after it. The second interview was designed to go further into topics mentioned but underexplored in the first, such as interpersonal conflicts and the man’s experience of the program. Interviews lasted approximately 80 min and were recorded. Field notes were taken during the conversations.

Most interviews (37) were conducted in locations selected by participants―wherever they felt comfortable. They included cafes, restaurants, and video calls. Ten interviews took place in private rooms in the venue where the programs were held. Interviews were conducted in participant-chosen, non-residential settings as a precaution to minimize risks of emotional distress or aggression. Interviewers used trauma-informed, non-confrontational techniques alongside an open narrative format to reduce escalation. Participants were not interviewed immediately after legal hearings or conflicts, and confidentiality was strictly maintained to protect all involved. Interviewers were also instructed to stop the interview if the participant showed visible signs of distress, and information about psychological support services was provided when relevant. These combined precautions were designed to ensure that the interviews were conducted safely and respectfully while allowing for in-depth narrative exploration.

This project, along with the information sheet and informed consent, were approved by the Ethics Review Board of the Department of Health Sciences, La Matanza National University. Before the interview, all participants were given written informed consent. This covered the purpose of the study, length of participation, and the fact that participation was entirely voluntary and unpaid. Participants could withdraw at any time, and non-participants received the same treatment as participants. To minimize potential conflict or feelings of coercion, all communication (except the presentation of the study) was conducted individually. All interviews were anonymized and the names of the participants were replaced by pseudonyms. Verbatim quotes are presented in the Results section, including the age of the interviewee at the time of participation in the program, the number of months he had been attending the program, and whether he had completed it.

Analysis

Interviews were transcribed and processed in Atlas.Ti. The analysis followed general guidelines for thematic analysis inspired by Braun and Clarke (2006), adapted to a deductively driven approach. The process consisted of: (1) defining five theoretical dimensions of analysis (perception of change, perception of the treatment program, reasons for attendance, barriers, and facilitators of change) based on our aim and the literature review (see Gondolf, 2004; Hughes, 2023; Mertens & Myrttinen, 2019); (2) coding the interviews based on each dimension to identify themes (for example, identifying “threat” under the perception of the treatment program); (3) developing definitions for the main themes (e.g., defining “threat” as the professionals’ intention to inflict harm); (4) grouping themes into ideal types and formulating relationships between them across each dimension.

The interpretative procedure used to analyze the coded corpus was based on narrative criminology (Presser & Sandberg, 2015). For the analysis, we constructed ideal types of narratives (e.g. stories about self-change, stories about rejection) that captured recurring patterns in the ways interviewees talked about their lives, change, and violence. Our unit of analysis was the stories told by participants, and not the participants themselves: this implied that men might use more than one type of narrative.

Results

In this section we describe how participants narrated their experiences of change and their engagement with the programs. Table 2 presents the ideal types of narratives we identified and the subordinate stories that the men addressed (italicized in the text).

What Do They Understand by Subjective Change?

Interviewees told various stories about their subjective change. Some spoke about “improving”. Others saw change as being able to “manage” their emotions better. Some, however, made no reference to possible transformation, as they felt change to be unnecessary or a threat.

Self-Change

Some participants mentioned different kinds of change, framing personal transformation as the central purpose of attending the program. In these stories, change was not primarily about improving relationships or complying with external expectations—it was about bettering oneself.

Some stories depicted desistance as general personal growth: change was a process of development—akin to progressing towards a “new prosocial identity”. Such personal transformation was not connected to external changes such as turning points in their intimate relationships or legal situation, but to a radical reassessment of the beliefs, values, and attitudes at the core of their being. Personal growth stories usually encompassed the entire self, not just its “violent part”. This transformation involved re-evaluating their moral self, reshaping their internal sense of right and wrong. Rulo (44, 24 months, completed), for example, said:

So, if I am 44, I’d need 44 years of process to re-make myself from scratch, right? […] Changing is growing as a person, growing for yourself, not for other people. It’s about improving, adopting new values, and having a different outlook on life. It’s about getting better.

Rulo’s story also distinguished between the actions and thoughts of his old self and those defining his new self: “What would the old me have done? The jerk would have done that. But my new self is managing that situation differently.” Change was not only portrayed as an improvement over the past self (seen as worse’, more aggressive, etc.) but also helped to create boundaries with others.

Change was also described through stories about specific change processes. In contrast to general self-transformation, these narratives presented transformation as a specific personal improvement, such as the acquisition of “communication skills”. Participants saw these skills as an alternative to the use of violence–tools which enabled them to effectively express their feelings. Cacho (52, 7 months, ongoing) said:

We [men in the program] didn’t say what we really felt, just because we thought we would feel soft or, I don’t know, less manly […]. It was difficult to be emotional and demonstrative […] But today I have many tools that have been given to me and things are very clear to me […] it’s not that I’m a saint now, sometimes it still comes out, but I repeat, now there are these tools.

The stories told by this group explored change processes designed to identify a feature or quality perceived as harmful. In Cacho’s narrative, the central theme was hegemonic masculinity characterized by reluctance to express emotions (i.e., “feel soft,” “less manly”). However, this did not require complete self-transformation: change involved learning how to communicate differently without fundamentally altering one’s stoic self.

Some men narrated their change as a never-ending positive process. Unlike stories depicting change as a finite process with a clear ending point, this narrative described personal transformation as continual and unfinished. Hence, desistance implied a continuous active process of self-awareness and effort to avoid relapsing into violence. Pavel (30, 12 months, ongoing) said:

My deconstruction process is, somehow, going to be forever because, one of the things that the workshop gave me is that… It’s about rethinking everything all the time, thinking about my actions, how to improve my bond with others.

Self-change narratives described desistance as a process of personal development and a transformation of identity. Such stories referred to personal growth, leaving out of account the role of social networks and environments. Change was portrayed as being achieved exclusively by one’s own efforts, reflecting the prevailing values of masculine stoicism (Hearn, 1998). In these stories, the underlying idea was that change depends on a strong, resilient self, without the need for contextual resources for self-betterment (Mertens & Myrttinen, 2019). Stories of this type varied in how they saw the duration of the process (time-specific, prolonged, or never-ending) and the extent of change (acquiring specific skills or changing “entirely” as an individual). Nonetheless, in all these stories, desistance was equated with changing as a person and understanding this process as part of self-improvement.

Change in Social Relationships

Some stories focused on the role of social relationships and institutional settings in the process of change. These narratives linked personal transformation with certain external factors―particularly social dynamics―which triggered the internal motivation to change.

Certain stories attributed change to a new insight of the effects of violence on intimate partners and the development of empathy. Thus, desistance was not primarily portraited as a self-improvement, but as an altruistic action. Dario (29, 7 months, ongoing) for example, mentioned putting himself “in the other person’s shoes’’, recognizing his own responsibility for the harm done. Pepe (30, 9 months, ongoing) too reflected on this:

For me, change is about others. It’s not about being perfect or just improving myself. That’s all superficial and even selfish. It’s about understanding that my actions affect her and that I’m accountable for them.

The turning point in Pepe’s story was recognizing the impact his actions had on his partner: desistance started by acknowledging the pain experienced by the other person. Similarly, Flores (47, 11 months, ongoing) said:

I started to feel the other person’s, which is extremely important to me. There’s not just the pain of the partner attending the group, but the pain of my ex-partner, the other person. It’s important to understand both types of pain, but, first and foremost, that of the ex-partner.

In several cases, the trigger for such recognition was a deeply felt sense of shame. Some participants described the experience of being “looked at differently” after disclosure or arrest, referring to themselves as “marked” or “dirty.” One man said, “Before I even opened my mouth, they had already decided I was guilty”. This emotional exposure did not always lead to defensive reactions. For some, shame became the first crack in their narrative certainty—a destabilizing emotion that opened the possibility of re-evaluating themselves and their relationships.

Some stories highlighted how the desire to preserve or restore significant social relationships served as a key motivation for change. Although these accounts often framed change in practical or strategic terms, the focus remained on maintaining connection with others — particularly children, partners, or broader social networks. This instrumental change is a transformation motivated primarily by pragmatic interests: the individual may modify their violent behavior to protect or regain important relationships, gain social approval, avoid the social negative consequences of violence (e.g., labeling, prosecution, etc.), or recoup personal losses suffered due to IPV. Thus, Byron (50, 14 months, completed) said:

She filed a report against me in court, you know? I lost my son. I remember that he was a baby. The 21-year-old was then a baby, a year old […]. Everything I did later, all this therapy and group discussion, time and money invested, was not for me, but for him. Changing was never part of my plan.

Byron’s narrative centers on change as a strategy to maintain a relationship with his son. Like other men, he framed his engagement in the program as a means to an end. This meant moving away from a ‘feared self’ (someone rejected by his family due to their violent nature) towards a ‘possible self’ with greater social benefits (a father capable of communicating affectionately) (Paternoster & Bushway, 2009). This new identity could take root since its benefits contrasted with the perceived disadvantages of the previous violent one. Byron made this clear in the description of his situation after the program:

You go on living and having friends, family, and behaving well is good because other people say, “look how well this guy is doing.” Do you understand? “Look at how he talks to you, or with his nephews, you know? Trying to lend a hand even with people he doesn’t know, trying to help, or give advice, good advice.”

Stories concerning changing for or because of others demonstrate the nuances of desistance narratives. These changes often included a reconstruction of their moral self, as men began to align their behavior with a renewed ethical framework. The well-being of intimate partners may sometimes be central; at other times, change has pragmatic motivations. While narratives could be seen as fragmented and dynamic (Sandberg, 2013), these stories underscore the need to consider both the therapeutic messages offered and how men actively respond to them. Improving self-image, therefore, cannot be connected to one single motivation or rationale. In some stories, shame quietly shaped the path to change; in others, it was almost absent, as men focused instead on regaining control, reconnecting with loved ones, or simply avoiding further trouble.

Denial and Resistance

When discussing their experiences of the programs, some men denied there was any need for change: they described therapy, programs, and involvement with institutional actors as unnecessary or even harmful, despite, in certain cases, having completed the therapeutic process. Such stories depicted change as invasive and a threat to identity―an attack on their sense of self. This was the view of Matías (35, 7 months, ongoing): he described feeling the legal process was damaging to him, particularly in terms of masculine reputation, legal standing, personal control, and self-respect.

Being charged with a crime would screw up my life, because I’d definitely have a record. I don’t know if it means going to jail, right? But an investigation, time, money, being evaluated. I don’t know. A lot. […]. All of this, being in a therapeutic space, would just complicate my life.

In such narratives, the change process was shaped by participants’ awareness of being labeled and stigmatized as wrongdoers. Participants, therefore, either refuted or downplayed their violence. They sometimes blamed the victim—claiming that she provoked him or lied about what happened. These accounts, in which change was deemed irrelevant, were often designed to avoid the legal, social, and moral consequences of being labeled a “batterer” (Harding et al., 2017).

These narratives might also be inspired by the belief that seeking change is wholly unnecessary and even contrary to their interests. Pablo (37, 7 months, ongoing) asked, “Why would they think I [stressed] was the problem? … I don’t need to change, there is nothing wrong with me.” In such narratives, participants sometimes acknowledged violence in their intimate relationships, but rejected external help. Pablo continued:

The court says you have to go, so you go. But that doesn’t mean I did anything wrong. Doing something wrong once is one thing; you can’t expect people to undergo treatment for that! (…). People lie to get what they want, and now I’m stuck in a group with guys who are… dysfunctional. It’s ridiculous.

Some accounts downplayed the specificity of violence (“it’s not gender-based, just a fight”) and the possibility of change. Here, aggression was explained as an isolated event stemming from an exceptional situation. The idea of change being necessary was, therefore, dismissed. For example, Oscar (32, 8 months, ongoing) mentioned a conflict related to parenthood, without acknowledging the background of gender-based violence: “We got married at 27, and two years later we had [son’s name]. That’s when we started fighting. I guess it’s normal, with a baby, things change, there’s not as much time. […] No matter what people in the program might say.” He insisted that the issue was not to do with him, but with what the other person was experiencing.

Obviously, I knew the relationship would change over time, that it wouldn’t always be the same. But I was okay. And then she started changing and I couldn’t stay silent. And I started to feel bad. But now I realize, that’s why I was telling you, the issue wasn’t me. It was what was happening to her.

The narratives of denial and resistance included stories of compliance, which portrayed change as a part of their institutional trajectory, a pretense made to meet the expectations of the system. In contrast with instrumental narratives, which involve an effort to change behavior in pursuit of personal or relational gain, compliance narratives reflect a performative engagement with the program. Participants were not interested in change, but in doing what was necessary to satisfy the authorities. As Juan (65, 9 months, ongoing) said:

I was forced to go, I also went to a particular psychologist, but almost pulled out on the first day because I had already undergone therapy… but he told me, ‘Well, if you’re looking for an excuse… uh… there’s the door,’ and I told him no, he was mistaken. (…) I didn’t like the way he spoke to me… But you know, I had just to play their game [attend the program] to end this all [legal situation].

In such narratives there is denial of violence, victim blaming, and claims that external circumstances were the problem (stressful events, misconception of the program, etc.). Most importantly, they all saw subjective change as unnecessary or impossible. Hence, these stories were designed by the men to portray themselves as morally upright who should not be labeled ‘batterers’, minimizing their responsibility and the need for change (Harding et al., 2017).

Uncertainty and Defensiveness

So far, narratives have set clear boundaries between participants’ intentions and perceived institutional efforts, but not everyone framed their experiences of change so neatly. Some expressed uncertainty and felt overwhelmed by the institution. Stories about uncertainty signaled unease with the program, for instance, due to uncertainty about what was expected of them in the process and what was going on during the therapy session. Strikingly, this framing did not emerge in men who were in the early stages of the process, but also in some who completed the program or were close to it.

Some participants acknowledged the need for change but were unsure about how to achieve it. Walter (34, 10 months, ongoing) said: “I’m starting to recognize, let’s say, something wasn’t right, but I am not sure how to… how this works.” Roberto (49, 11 months, ongoing) was uncertain about institutional norms:

I’m struggling to understand the process. I’m expected to change my approach to anger management, but I face constant challenges and disrespectful treatment. I’m unsure what roles people have here and who I can be frank with. I’m confused, rather than not interested.

Stories depicting uncertainty all portrayed individuals who did not know how to move forward. Some were committed to engaging in desistance; others had reservations about the “real need” for change. Uncertainty allowed them to say they felt lost and, to some extent, unaccountable for their actions.

Uncertainty was a common theme, which indicates the tension between the programs’ goals and the participants’ interests. These narratives enabled men to present themselves in a way that neither completely rejected the institutions nor fully committed to their treatment, giving them a measure of agency amid their confusion. A recurrent topic was the narrators’ lack of understanding of the norms and procedures of the programs (e.g. hierarchies of professionals and their roles and responsibilities, the institution’s capacity to intervene in the men’s legal process, etc.). Such stories may represent a phase in the desistance process that precedes engagement with a catalyst for change, or they may be interpreted as indicative of poor engagement with the treatment received.

Stories about Batterer Programs

Interviewees also told stories related to the programs they had attended. Unlike change narratives, which did not always mention the institutions, conversations about programs directly addressed the participants’ institutional situation. Sometimes programs were portrayed as providing opportunities for a change of direction; sometimes they figured as a source of trouble and complications. We divided the stories into three types: (1) positive impact, (2) rejection and (3) cautious distance (Table 2).

Positive Impact

Some narratives described the programs as having a profoundly positive effect on their lives. The activities provided by them―mainly group therapy―were often depicted as crucial to the process of change. The program was represented as helpful, educational or generally supportive.

In these positive narratives, some men described a profound sense of belonging, arising from the satisfaction they felt at actively contributing to their own change and “personal growth”. They emphasized the part played by the treatment in improving their lives and relationships, where a reconstruction of their moral self was central. Underlying these narratives was a strong sense of trust in the institution itself—a belief that the program had both the legitimacy and the capacity to support meaningful change. This trust functioned as a narrative premise, making the accounts of growth and transformation plausible and coherent.

When talking about the group therapy in the program, Patricio (34, 15 months, completed) explained that it helped him to overcome his depression and to shift towards a more mature identity:

That place taught me how to be a person […] because I didn’t have self-love, hygiene, I was depressed, at 32, I didn’t know how to make a bed, didn’t know how to fold clothes, it was like everything had just vanished.

Patricio’s account illustrates how some men found their participation deeply meaningful, viewing it as a catalyst for personal reconstruction. His narrative frames participation as a turning point, marked by the recovery of basic competencies and a sense of self-worth. Phrases like “it was like everything had just vanished” signaled rejection of former negative identities—not just violence, but incompetence in other areas of daily life—and demonstrated the magnitude of the change treatment enabled. The quote shows that, for some men, these programs provide both an opportunity for change and a space for personal growth and life reconstruction.

Stories of group engagement further underscored the benefits of the group approach in programs. These stories highlighted the power of group dynamics to foster self-reflection, mutual recognition, and collaborative learning. Pavel (30, 10 months, ongoing) commented:

I think it’s great to have places like this where we can reflect and rethink our way of living, how we relate to others. I believe spaces like this are necessary… I was lucky to find a place to reflect, not everyone has that opportunity.

Here, reflection was presented as central to reevaluating one’s life and relationships. Such reflection represents a departure from hegemonic masculine ideals that often discourage emotional introspection and promote stoic endurance, indicating that change involves not only personal growth but also a gendered reconfiguration of how men relate to themselves and others. In these stories, individuals go from denial to recognizing the need for group spaces where there can be behavior transformation. Jeremias (48, 12 months, ongoing) said:

It’s good to maybe see that… It’s a problem that’s a bit more complex, not just an individual and isolated issue. Most men–not all but the majority–in some way have issues with violence, or sexism.

In these accounts, participants acknowledged the complexity of the problem of change and addressed the relational dimension of gender-based violence, recognizing that it is not just an individual matter but a broader social issue. Such stories stand in significant contrast to experiences of resistance and shame (Góttzen, 2019), showing that group dynamics play a valuable part in personal transformation and awareness of the issue’s complexity. It is important to note, however, that these were the least common type of stories among those collected. While compelling, such positive representations of institutional engagement were rare, and stood out against a backdrop of more ambivalent or negative experiences.

Rejection

All participants shared stories expressing some form of rejection toward the treatment. These narratives often targeted specific aspects of a program such as therapy dynamics, behavior of the staff or the entire idea of intervention. The commonest way of framing rejection was mistrust. Such narratives sprang from lack of understanding of how programs work, what was expected in them, or how they could help improve their behavior. These issues were, generally, linked to denial and resistance to change. As Juan (65, 10 months, ongoing) said:

I go, I say I’ll go to all the meetings, I do everything they ask, what [name of the coordinator of the program] asks me, but I don’t really understand. I don’t understand how long this will last, and why I have to pay for it. I pay for it because I don’t want any more problems, but I don’t know.

Some men claimed their mistrust arose from the program´s failure to communicate the treatment’s goals and long-term benefits. They were frustrated at not being able to see a clear path to change. Others said their commitment had not had tangible results. The gap between their expectations and the reality of the program was, for these participants, the central plank of their rejection stories. This mistrust may also be linked to the gendered pressures men experience to appear self-reliant, which complicate their willingness to fully engage in programs perceived as challenging traditional masculine ideals of stoicism and control.

A variant of these stories features a perception of the inadequacy of the institutions, which lack the ability to adapt or to provide treatment that can address men’s specific needs. Thus, Flores (47, 7 months, ongoing) said:

I did notice that some parts felt like they’d run their course. I kept going to the group, but I didn’t have much more to share. It felt like I was digging into my past trying to find something violent to talk about. I realized that’s not what the group was aiming for, like it wasn’t meeting my needs in a way.

Flores’s story described how the program did not meet his needs. In a second interview, he expanded on this: “The program does not work. It operates like an assembly line; it is not personalized.” Other men told similar stories: the main reason for denying the usefulness of a program was that it did not match their particular needs. Such narratives made clear that programs were, for a variety of reasons, ineffective.

The last type of story told by interviewees revolved around shame, that is, the feeling of discomfort, humiliation, or dishonor associated with being known to be participating in programs, as it meant being labeled a batterer. This narrative was especially common among those who had spent less time in the program. Martín (39, 7 months, ongoing) said:

There’s also shame, you know? Because when you tell someone, they don’t really know if you actually hit your partner or not. Let me explain… At my work, I told everyone, but those who only know me slightly don’t know the full situation. They don’t know if I really hit her, so it was embarrassing because I had to explain what had happened… Not that I’m asking them to believe me, because I’m not… but you can see it in their eyes, the judgmental looks ….

Unlike other stories, these were not focused on the idea of change or on how an institution worked, but on what being on a program meant. Ultimately, shame is connected with the meaning and negotiation of labels: that is, whether one is judged guilty or innocent, as Gottzén (2019) argues. A “restraining order,” intensifies shame, because concern about public opprobrium adds to the dishonor associated with being on a treatment program.

Cautious Distance

A frequent theme in participants’ narratives was distrust of the program and its staff. Maintaining cautious distance often signaled reluctance to emotionally invest or fully engage in the treatment process. Their lack of trust was manifested in stories frequently indicating concern about the professionals’ hidden agendas or institutions’ unclear goals. Jorge (27, 12 months, completed), who had finished the program a week earlier to our first interview, said his reluctance to participate sprang from the unethical overlap between the staff’s work and interests.

They expect us to open up and pour our hearts out, but they don’t reveal their own intentions. It’s their work. So why should I believe that this doesn’t interfere with doing ethical work, like listening to our side of the story?

Rulo (44, 13 months, completed) also described initial hesitation to engage in the activities of the program, but said this had changed.

They make you do some exercises that at first seem like, it shouldn’t be a joke, it should be, like, acting, we do stuff, today I laugh my ass off. But from the start, why? Why do I have to act like a woman? […] There’s this resistance from every new member we get when we start […], until you get past that situation, you have a couple of long months.

While such stories suggest an underlying distrust, some of them show signs of readiness to embrace the programs. These narratives focus on acquiring knowledge about the programs and how they work, overcoming fears, mistrust or skepticism. They suggest the emotional distance from treatment may be reduced. They often involve the positive influence of a friend, family member, or someone else who encourages them to participate in the program. Pavel (30, 9 months, ongoing) asked “a colleague, an activist friend, if she knew of any program dealing with violence in men”. Pedro (33, 8 months, ongoing), mentioned the help given by his brother:

I asked for help, I asked my brother to talk to someone who might get me a spot, and at that time my brother had started working at [brother’s workplace] and luckily, he picked up the phone and got me a spot a week later to get admitted immediately […], But I won’t lie, in the last moments, the last days, my mind wanted to say no, like, stand him up, not go, but I plucked up courage and went.

Pavel and Pedro were thus encouraged by the guidance of a familiar person, who helped them overcome emotional barriers. This helped them to put an initial trust into the program, which alleviated the feeling of complete unfamiliarity with the set-up. This shows how friends and family can play a key role in their decision to engage in treatment, by reducing uncertainty and making them more willing to commit to change and rehabilitation. Male peer support often facilitates a renegotiation of masculine identity, enabling men to cautiously soften stoic postures and accept help without feeling that their masculinity is undermined.

The cautious distance narrative was the most frequent among participants, encompassing a broad range of mistrust and emotional distancing from the institution. This variety of skepticism highlighted a heterogeneous narrative of institutional unreliability. The cautious distance narrative thus had practical implications for participants’ involvement. Keeping aloof acted as a barrier to effective intervention: lack of emotional commitment could lead to half-hearted participation, where individuals were physically present but not fully engaged. However, this narrative revealed a paradox in the relationship between trust and participation: trusting the program and its potential for positive change required input from external sources, usually male peers. Desistance, therefore, often relies on factors external to the programs themselves and could even be influenced by individuals who in the past approved of the individual’s violent behavior.

Discussion

This study explored men’s narratives about attending batterer intervention programs, focusing on how they described their processes of change. We concentrated on men who had already participated in the program for more than half of its average duration, as well as those who had completed most or all of it, in order to explore the common stories told by those already familiar with the program’s ideas about change and even those who might be considered ‘desisters’. The stories revealed the complexity and diversity of these pathways: there is no single story that describes change. Common themes included self-change, acquiring alternative “conflict resolution skills”, developing “effective communication techniques”, and changes in men’s social circles. Some narratives denied the need for change and featured denial of IPV, externalization of responsibility or lack of awareness about the importance of change. Between these two extremes, there were stories expressing ambiguity, confusion, and a lack of common references to help them navigate the therapeutic process.

Resistance and denial narratives were rooted in a sense of despair, threat, and subjugation of the self. Participants framed their experiences as feeling belittled and harassed by legal mechanisms. The tension between their self-presentation (as men striving to maintain a morally sound persona) and the program’s strategies (emphasizing their responsibility) compelled them to actively resist the programs. Such responses are logical if men see their violence as blameless and an endeavor to turn perceived damage into justice (Cassino & Besen-Cassino, 2021). This makes any form of treatment seem unnecessary. Their stories about change—depicting it as unnecessary or irrelevant—were an attempt to reclaim a position of power. The fact that we still encountered such narratives among men who had formally completed the programs highlights a contradiction between the official completion of the intervention and the actual shifts in how change is narrated.

Questioning batterer intervention programs often went along with stories depicting anxiety about the future because of the stigma of being branded as an “IPV perpetrator” (see Walker et al., 2017). Shame was a recurrent script that men employed to narrativize their experiences throughout treatment. As Ólafsdóttir and Hearn (2023) suggest, this shame may be understood as a social product systematically blocking men´s pathways to change and reflection. Yet the role of shame in the narratives was not uniform. In some accounts, it was tied to the label itself—evoking feelings of exclusion, mistrust, and resistance to change. In others, shame marked a turning point: it opened up space for greater engagement with the program and a more honest reckoning with their behavior.

Having contemplated what might lie ahead after their relationships or treatment ended, many participants expressed a desire to become “better men”. However, their notions of “better” and their approaches to self-improvement sometimes diverged from the program’s. Conflicting expectations, therefore, were a central theme, particularly in stories emphasizing confusion and mistrust. For example, while Patricio (34) understood personal growth as overcoming depression and rebuilding daily life skills, others like Pavel (30) valued having spaces for reflection to rethink their relationships, highlighting how such differing expectations often fueled confusion and mistrust. This divergence in personal narratives and goals contributed to a sense of misalignment with the program’s aims—disrupting the bond with the institution, a tension that may be an inherent characteristic of any total institution.

Resistance to official notions of change went along with narratives expressing uncertainty about the program’s benefits, perceptions that programs were not tailored to individual needs and shame about the labeling associated with participation. Nonetheless, participants who embraced the idea of transformation described the programs as having a positive impact, saying they experienced a deep sense of belonging and recognized the importance of intervention to improve their lives and relationships.

Although narratives marked by greater resistance and skepticism were more common among participants in earlier stages of the program (6–12 months), we found all types of narratives—including those embracing, contesting, or expressing ambivalence toward change—across men at different points in their treatment. We interpret this to mean that while time in the program may logically influence how stories are told, it does not fully determine narrative stance (as suggested by Sandberg, 2013). Most participants had already spent substantial time in the program, according to practitioner standards, and their stories generally reflected familiarity with its discourses. However, men often told more than one story within a single interview, shifting between trust in practitioners and skepticism, or between acknowledging change and minimizing it. This internal narrative variation underscores the fluid, ongoing nature of engaging with change and complicates linear models of transformation (Gottzén, 2019; Hughes, 2023). Rather than comparing program stages, we highlight that contradictory narratives often coexist and shape the desistance process in uneven ways.

Some narratives expressed an instrumental understanding of change—e.g. a way to regain access to their children, avoid further legal problems or being “tainted”’ by their peers. Such stories imply a passive compliance designed to avoid stigma. This discursive position sheds light on how some participants may navigate institutional processes without undergoing substantial identity change. However, such instrumental narratives may still play a role in desistance. While a feared self alone may not be sufficient to sustain long-term change, research suggests that when paired with a positive possible self—as in Paternoster and Bushway’s (2009) model—or a hook for change (Giordano et al., 2002), even externally motivated behavior can catalyze more meaningful transformations over time. For this reason, we exercise caution when interpreting instrumental narratives solely as resistance or disengagement. Although an individual’s mindset may not reflect a strong commitment to change—as seen in narratives of rejection—external pressures (e.g. the risk of losing a romantic partner, fear of incarceration) may still contribute to desistance by creating conditions that favor behavioral shifts and eventually, identity change (Laub & Sampson, 2001).

Whether embracing, rejecting, or contesting change, the roles men adopted were gendered, showing their efforts to uphold socially acceptable masculine identities via narratives (Góttzen, 2019; Hughes, 2023). Attending these programs often threatened their stoic identities, but when viewed as opportunities for “improvement” and “growth” participation aligned with narratives of male enhancement and neoliberal ideals of self-betterment (Mertens & Myrttinen, 2019). The key issue was whether questioning the self and the status quo was seen as viable: embracing uncertainty and criticism was a significant dividing factor. As Dziewa and Glowacz (2023) argue, reevaluating lived experiences, whether those connected with childhood or with intimate relationships, was crucial for these men. Their willingness to engage in reflection and sensitive discussions was a key element in their stories.

The focus on social networks in some stories underscores the importance of understanding treatment that goes beyond individual desistance. Participants’ concerns about rejection by peers and being labeled “violent” or “submissive pet of a treatment program”, represent significant obstacles to treatment (Harding et al., 2017). Ultimately, all the narratives about change, whether rejecting or embracing it, were strongly tied to men’s social networks. This not only highlights the pervasive influence of masculinity (Hughes, 2023), but also the importance of exogenous factors for desistance (Walker et al., 2013).

Using these narratives to describe their experiences—whether expressing shame, denying the need for change, or eagerly embracing subjective transformation—enabled men to maintain a coherent persona (Maruna, 2001). Even when conveying denial or uncertainty, the narratives allowed them to reclaim their previous masculine positions (Hearn, 1998; Gottzen, 2019). These accounts were shaped by the discursive frameworks contextually available to them for making sense of change. While storytelling always involves some degree of innovation (Presser & Sandberg, 2015), in a sociocultural setting, the range of stories available for discussing change is limited. How then, can men meaningfully talk about it?

Our findings aim at contributing to the growing literature on desistance by adopting a narrative lens that foregrounds the stories men tell about change, rather than assuming fixed psychological shifts or identity transformations. Much of the desistance literature has focused on identity change as a prerequisite for abandoning violence (e.g. Paternoster & Bushway, 2009), yet our study with a Latin American sample suggests that conflicting narratives about change often persist even after program completion. For many participants, distancing themselves from violence involved reinterpreting past actions or cultivating more acceptable versions of the self, rather than wholesale reinvention. This invites a reconsideration of the role of narrative continuity—and not rupture—in processes of change.

Importantly, few studies have explored these dynamics in Latin American contexts, where broader issues such as institutional mistrust and social inequality shape how men interpret and narrate their engagement with treatment and subjective change more broadly. Our analysis underscores the need to locate global theories within local contexts, and to move beyond frameworks that isolate concepts such as shame or masculinity from the broader social ecologies of trust, belonging, and state legitimacy. Many stories in our sample revealed that participants’ willingness to reflect on their use of violence depended not only on how they saw themselves as men, but also on their experiences of being listened to, supported, or rejected by institutions and peers. These findings suggest that desistance narratives are not merely personal accounts, but socially embedded processes that must be understood in relation to the wider discourses and institutional contexts within which they are produced. Rather than treating men’s accounts as decontextualized scripts of denial, blame, or redemption, we argue for an approach that recognizes narrative both as a meaning-making practice and as a relational tool shaped not only by social recognition and feedback (Weaver, 2012), but also by the broader possibilities available in particular sociocultural settings.

Close study of these narratives makes it clear that they are not only a means of constructing a moral self, but also a product of engagement with institutional programs. Ievins (2019) points out that the stories shared by heavily stigmatized individuals may be shaped by the institutions responsible for their “treatment”. Interaction between perpetrators and programs, therefore, often leads to limited and occlusive stories about personal change. In Latin American countries, where trust in institutions is low (Cáceres, 2019), this is even more problematic. Current approaches might prevent men fully addressing their actions or giving accounts that fully recognize the harm they have done.

Discussions of batterer programs have mainly focused on their efficacy (Arce et al., 2020; Eckhardt et al., 2013; Lila & Gilchrist, 2023; Walker et al., 2013), without much emphasis on understanding the rationales of participants (Hughes, 2023; Oddone, 2020). Our aim is to nuance understandings of desistance from IPV by examining perpetrators’ stories in Argentina and Uruguay and how these shape their worldviews and predispositions to change. As Renehan (2021) says regarding batterer programs, it is essential to “humanise the traumatising but traumatised men” we interact with (p. 324). To some extent, most men did regard change positively, but we believe it remains crucial to assess the complex narratives that mediate the desistance process and to foster open discussions about how institutions are perceived.

Limitations

This study has limitations associated with its design and where the fieldwork took place. In a cross-sectional study, it is impossible to analyze how the stories impact participants’ desistance process in the way a longitudinal study might have done, since men’s stories may evolve during their program. Instead, our analysis focuses on the repertoire of stories used to discuss change, examining these narratives rather than individual participants. Our aim was not to compare desisters and persisters, but rather to identify narrative forms—understood not as features of individuals but as discursive resources—that may shape trajectories. Moreover, the results we have discussed are inevitably influenced by the effect of the program. We see this not as a limitation but as a theoretical implication of our study: these narratives, regardless of the specific participants, imbue subjective change and institutional contexts with meaning.

Many factors may have influenced the recruitment process and sample composition. Men may have felt pressured to participate and seen certain narratives as more acceptable to the institution. To address these challenges, we developed strategies to build rapport and create safe spaces during interviews. On the evidence of our previous work on motivations for participating in such interviews (Di Marco & Sandberg, 2023), we believe participants’ eagerness to share their stories outweighs other factors. Finally, we included men from Uruguay and Argentina in the analysis and examined them together. However, due to the close cultural similarities between the two areas, we do not consider this an issue.

Conclusions and Practical Implications

Much of the existing literature on batterer intervention programs and perpetrators (often centering on ‘what works’) tends to overlook the broader narratives shaping processes of change, as well as the institutional frameworks within which these programs operate. The narratives of men who are attending or have completed such programs highlight factors that can both facilitate and hinder their transformation. These stories range from “genuine” interest in self-improvement and active engagement to outright rejection and resistance, alongside more ambivalent or instrumental uses of the programs and varying degrees of mistrust. This diversity underscores the need for a nuanced approach to interventions addressing IPV. Narratives concerning institutions often reveal tensions between participants’ expectations and the lack of detailed guidance within programs, indicating that achieving “change” depends not only on how desistance is understood but also on perceptions of institutional efficacy and reliability. Paradoxically, trust in the program’s potential for positive impact requires prior trust in state institutions and insights gained through peer experiences.

Our study reveals that, whether embracing, rejecting, or contesting change, men’s roles are inherently gendered, as is shown by their efforts to maintain socially acceptable masculine identities through narratives. For some, participating in these programs was a threat to their identity, while for others, it represented opportunities for “improvement” and “growth”, aligning with narratives of male enhancement and neoliberal ideals of self-betterment. A critical issue was whether questioning the self and challenging the status quo was deemed acceptable: embracing uncertainty and vulnerability were pivotal factors in their transformative experiences. By understanding these diverse narratives, and their connection with institutions, practitioners can better address underlying issues and improve the effectiveness of intervention programs for IPV perpetrators.

The findings underscore the importance of recognizing the narratives that shape how men understand and engage with the idea of change—narratives influenced by broader societal discourses rather than being unique to individual “aggressors.” It is crucial to attend not only to overt expressions of engagement or resistance, but also to more subtle, ambivalent, or instrumental accounts that reveal how participants position themselves in relation to responsibility, violence, and transformation. Practitioners may benefit from incorporating structured narrative reflection into group processes, encouraging participants to critically engage with their own life stories and evolving notions of change (a key element in hegemonic masculinity). At the same time, we see that building institutional trust is essential, especially in contexts where systems are perceived as punitive, inconsistent, or opaque. This is particularly important in societies with lower levels of trust in the state. Creating environments that are transparent, stable, and culturally sensitive can foster more meaningful engagement. Finally, critically engaging with dominant framings of self-improvement may provide a valuable entry point for deeper reflection, supporting a shift from mere compliance toward more relational and accountable forms of change.